


Mindless

by leiascully



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, X-Files OctoberFicFest 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: She’s holding his hand, her thumb even now rubbing gently over the articulated ridge of his knuckles.  She has no idea when this came to pass, but from the amusement in his eyes, it’s been at least ten minutes.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Mindless

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: n/a  
> Disclaimer: No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

They’re in the airport. Sometimes it seems like they’ve always been in the airport; time dilates and she gains back the nine minutes she lost in Oregon, with interest, except that it’s not interesting. But she has a book this time, something that caught her eye in one of the airport shops. It isn’t like she has the leisure to go to the library. It’s a period drama, nothing remotely criminal, the suspense rendered entirely in tense tableaux played out in well-appointed rooms by people who hold their emotions in reserve until, like a flood of molasses, they burst out as a deluge of passionate words. 

“Scully,” Mulder says, sounding amused. She tears herself away from the page reluctantly. The author has just introduced a man she’s certain will be the love interest, if he doesn’t have a secret wife, a dark past, or a penchant for men. Or all three. She wouldn’t want to limit any competent, complex protagonist and her tall, dark, and handsome amoureux to just one roadblock. It’s the tension that’s interesting, the yearning that draws out between them until it’s nearly unbearable, binding their two hearts together.

“Mulder,” she says evenly, trying to convey her mild irritation at being interrupted.

He looks down and her eyes follow his. She’s holding his hand, her thumb even now rubbing gently over the articulated ridge of his knuckles. She has no idea when this came to pass, but from the amusement in his eyes, it’s been at least ten minutes.

“Good book?” he asks.

“Very distracting,” she snaps, trying to withdraw her hand from his. The pressure of his fingers increases gently as he resists her efforts to disentangle herself. Of course. 

“If you need the support to deal with the vagaries of Regency England, I’m here for you,” he says, smirking. She stops tugging.

“I wasn’t thinking,” she says.

“The subconscious,” he begins, and she shoots him a look. “I’m sure you were just cold,” he amends. “Go back to your book.”

His hand is warm, and, she admits (only to herself) a suitable anchor to keep her tethered in her own century. She pretends to glare at him and turns back to the page. She can feel him shifting to read over her shoulder. 

“Forsooth,” he murmurs.

“I will close this book,” she threatens, and he contains his mirth.

“Turn the page,” he says. “There’s got to be something more to this guy, right? What’s your profile?”

She ignores him, relaxing into the familiarity of his patter, sinking into the narrative until the airport around her is just a frame for the image of the two of them, heads bowed over her book, sharing another story, their hands still clasped on the narrow armrest of the chair.


End file.
